


Where Your Kind Are Kept

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood, Claustrophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Poor Prompto, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: At first, Prompto doesn't understand. Then he turns to get a better look where Ardyn's pointing, and he feels the blood in his veins turn to ice.Because there, on the edge of a middle row, one of the pods is sliding open. An MT is stepping out, mechanical steps a jerky imitation of human motion. Behind it, Prompto can see the interior of the pod – a tiny scrap of a closet. Less than a closet: just enough space for one of those things to stand up in.The shock rushes over him so sharp and sudden that he feels dizzy. "You're joking," says Prompto. "Right?"





	Where Your Kind Are Kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Kaciart, who drew [this incredible comic](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/164984926098) after I shared an idea I've been tossing around for awhile with her. (Thank you again SO MUCH! I love it to pieces!!!)
> 
> Anyway, of course I had to write it. Of course I did. 8D

In retrospect, pissing off the guy who has him locked in a cell probably isn't the smartest thing Prompto's ever done.

It's just so easy.

He's scared out of his mind, and this asshole won't stop picking at scabs Prompto's been trying to stop from bleeding his whole life. He doesn't know how Ardyn knows about the barcode on his wrist. But every time he brings it up – and he brings it up a  _lot_  – Prompto feels something shift and jitter inside him like a trapped animal, trying to claw its way free.

So he does what he always does, when he's scared. He lets his brain shut off and his mouth take over, and it's just a little too easy to talk back the next time Ardyn stops by to visit.

And maybe he hit a nerve. Maybe he went a bit overboard.

Because here he is, getting dragged through metal halls, an MT clamped down on each of his arms, holding him fast. Prompto has no idea where they're going, but he knows he only has his dumb mouth to blame.

They've passed other cells by now, just like his. They've passed a control room and a storage area.

Now they're in a chamber every bit as tall as the Citadel's throne room, only there are these weird rectangle-shaped pods hanging in rows up toward the ceiling.

"Don't worry," says Ardyn, idly. He's trailing along behind the MTs, steps casual, and Prompto instantly starts worrying. "We're nearly there. You'll feel better for the relocation, I'm sure."

Don't you play along, Prompto's brain warns him. Don't you even think about it.

But maybe Prompto's mouth didn't get the memo, because he says, "Where are we heading, anyway?"

Ardyn smiles, languid and amused. He lifts a finger and points up toward the ceiling, where the pods stand in rows, dull metal set with panels and a single strip of red light. "Where the rest of your kind are kept, of course," says Ardyn. "You'll feel right at home."

At first, Prompto doesn't understand. Then he turns to get a better look where Ardyn's pointing, and he feels the blood in his veins turn to ice.

Because there, on the edge of a middle row, one of the pods is sliding open. An MT is stepping out, mechanical steps a jerky imitation of human motion. Behind it, Prompto can see the interior of the pod – a tiny scrap of a closet. Less than a closet: just enough space for one of those things to stand up in.

The shock rushes over him so sharp and sudden that he feels dizzy. "You're joking," says Prompto. "Right?"

"Not at all," says Ardyn. "There are protocols here, for when a Magitek unit oversteps its boundaries."

"I'm not an MT," says Prompto, breathless. There's an edge to his voice, kind of frantic, that he can't quite rein in.

"Aren't you?" says Ardyn. And he reaches forward, all mild mock-concern, to trace a finger over the leather band still hiding Prompto's wrist from view.

The phantom touch sends a shiver of revulsion up Prompto's spine, but he has more important things to worry about, because the MTs holding him haven't stopped moving. They're already stepping onto the stairs that give access to the pods.

Prompto braces his feet, there against the railing, and tries to plant himself so that he can't be pulled forward. But the MTs are like machinery; they clack and whir, and push harder, and Prompto's legs tremble and give.

They keep going.

"Look," says Prompto. "Let's go back."

"Whatever would I want to do that for?" says Ardyn.

It's a great question. Plainly, Ardyn wants to do _this_ , or they wouldn't be doing it.

Prompto flounders for a minute, no good answer to give. Desperation makes him try anyway: "I'll – I'll stop talking."

That's what got him into this mess in the first place, right? So if he just shuts up, maybe it'll be enough to get him out.

Ardyn looks at him, thoughtful, like a cat considering a bird with a broken wing. "No more unsightly little rants about your precious king coming to save the day?"

"None," says Prompto, quickly.

"No more remarks on my probable parentage?"

"Not a word," says Prompto. "I swear."

How did they get so far, so fast?

They're two flights up already, drawing closer to that newly-vacated pod with every passing second. Prompto twists and jerks forward, fighting to get free. He says, "Seriously. You wanted me to watch my mouth, right? Consider it watched."

"Hmm," says Ardyn. "Tempting." He lifts one hand to his chin – makes a show of stroking it, as though thinking the offer over. "Although I believe I've changed my mind. I'd like to hear you, after all."

"Yeah?" says Prompto, with the dimmest spark of hope. They're too close for comfort to that pod. Every hair on the back of his neck is standing up; his stomach's gone leaden with terror.

"Oh, yes," says Ardyn. "I think I'll sit outside and listen to you scream."

There's a sound then, strange and high-pitched. It's coming from  _him_ , Prompto realizes, and tries to bite down on his lip to keep it in.

They're on the right level, now. The pod's looming open like the depths of some dungeon, black and foreboding.

"Don't worry," says Ardyn. "You'll do just fine. You were made for this, after all."

"Wait," Prompto manages to gasp. "Wait. Please, I can't – you can't –"

They're maybe ten feet away. The panic's like a wildfire running through his veins, torching rational thought. He can't even finish the sentence.

"You claim to have learned your lesson," says Ardyn, idly. "And yet here you stand, telling me what to do."

The MTs holding Prompto's arms have come to a stop before the open pod. He yanks and jerks in earnest now – lifts his feet up off the floor to kick at them and pulls so hard he's sure his arms are going to have bruises.

It's like fighting a behemoth with a toothpick. They don't even react. They just move forward, and forward, and  _forward_ , until he's there on the edge.

"Don't," says Prompto, desperate. "Please. What – what do you  _want_? Just tell me what you want." They're shoving at him now, trying to force him in – and he's going, despite the fact that every muscle in his body is straining not to. His hands catch at the metal lips of the container and hold tight, knuckles white and fingers trembling.

"I want for you to stop making a fuss," says Ardyn, "and do as you're told."

There's a shove at the center of his back, harder than the steady pressure from the MTs. The warmth from Ardyn's palm is a harsh contrast to cold metal.

It's strong enough to break his grip – strong enough for him to slam inside, shoulder wrenching from the angle, banging his knees and forehead on impact. There's a sound behind him, a soft _tsshhh_ , and he knows well enough what that is. That's the sound the automatic doors in this godsforsaken place make.

Prompto goes to turn – feels the too-close metal walls scraping against his shoulders as he twists around.

He's just in time to see the last fading glimpse of light.

He's just in time to see the door press closed with a gentle click that rings in his ears like a death sentence.

Prompto slams his fist against it – feels the shock of impact in his hand. There's no give: only solid, unyielding metal.

He can feel the weight of the chamber around him like it's pressing down on his lungs. His panicked breathing sounds too loud in the absolute darkness, and his chest is heaving like he's just run a marathon.

Noct's never going to find him here. He's just one pod out of hundreds. All around him, all across this chamber, rows and rows of MTs are lined up just like he is.

He remembers Ardyn's voice, smug and smooth, saying, "Where the rest of your kind are kept," and suddenly Prompto tastes bile at the back of his throat.

Is this where he'd have ended up anyway, if he never escaped Niflheim?

Prompto's been so good about crying.

Two days in this hellhole, and he's barely even sniffled. He can feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes now, though – presses his fists to the smooth metal, and leans his forehead there, too.

Then he tips his head back and  _wails_ , and even the thought of Ardyn standing outside listening isn't enough to stop him.

 

* * *

 

There aren't many places Noct hates.

He has a few, though. That chamber in the Citadel, where his father always took him to give him a dressing-down when he'd done something disappointing. The hotel room in Galdin Quay where he read a newspaper article that turned his whole world upside-down. The interior of a train, the dull grey metal a match for the weight in his heart.

Zegnautus Keep tops them all: endless miles of twists and turns, every corner looking exactly the same. The corridors echo with the footfalls of patrolling MTs, and Noct's barely scraping by. The ring on his finger burns with a deathly chill, and he feels it sucking the life from him, a little more every time he uses it.

He hates it. He  _hates_  this place.

But he's making progress, and he keeps telling himself that's enough.

So what if the MT tied to that chair wasn't Prompto? So what if the cell they came to at the end of that corridor held nothing but another MT in the shackles?

They just have to keep looking – that's all. Even if they _have_ been searching this place for days, that doesn't mean they won't find him. They've just missed something, some new door that they need to pry open, or some new card reader that they'll need to gain access to.

"Noct," says Ignis quietly, from a ways behind him. "Perhaps we should rest."

"We can't be far," says Noct.

They can be far, and he knows it. They don't even know for sure that Prompto's in the building.

Noct grits his teeth and picks a direction at random – back the way they came, toward the control room. He ducks his head and stares at the floor, gait stiff and too fast. He reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself to go slow enough for Ignis to keep up.

He reminds himself that they've still got a chance.

The control room's just the way they left it – a bank of blinking buttons, a wall of screens, and an abandoned chair where some operator used to sit.

Noct barely glances at it. He turns toward the hallway, intent on pressing on, but Gladio's voice stops him cold. "The hell's that?"

"What?" says Noct, and turns back around.

And there he sees it, up on the screen. Someone's changed where the surveillance cameras are pointing. Instead of empty hallways, every one of them shows the high chamber that he passed through earlier. It's lined with metal catwalks and those rectangular pods that house the MTs. There are hundreds of them, receding back into the distance. They're lined up in pristine rows on the video screens, like soldiers going off to war.

Every screen is like that. Every screen shows a different angle of the same room: some from the top looking down. Some from the ground looking up. Some from the side, mounted somewhere in the wall.

Every screen except one.

At first glance, Noct takes it for a blank screen; it's that dark. Then his eyes skim past it again, and he realizes that it's showing footage, after all. It's a top view, looking down, of a narrow, rectangular space. The inside of one of the pods, unless he misses his guess.

And there, leaning up against the wall, is a slumped figure that's barely visible in the dim lighting.

It's hard to make out details; the image is grainy, like the video footage has been adjusted to lighten it up. But he thinks – he thinks he can just see the jagged edges of familiar spiked hair.

Noct's breath catches in his throat. His eyes go wide.

He says: "Is that – ?" but he can't even finish the question.

Noct's hands clench into fists at his side. It takes everything he has to keep from driving one of those fists straight through the bank of monitors.

"What is it?" says Ignis.

"He's on the surveillance screens," says Noct.  "I think we found him."

 

* * *

 

They haven't found him – not really.

They've found a starting point, and that starting point is in a room with hundreds of identical pods.

They shout Prompto's name at the top of their lungs, hoping he'll respond – give them some clue where to even begin – but either he can't hear them, or he can't answer.

So they start at the bottom, and they work their way up.

It's slow going, even after they split up. Every pod houses an MT, and the thing's eyes glow to life as soon as the door comes open, an eerie red set into that blank, staring mask. Sometimes, Noct's able to run them through before they so much as twitch. Sometimes, the MT comes stumbling out before he gets the chance, and he has a fight on his hands.

Before two hours are up, Noct knows curatives are going to be a problem.

By the time they've been at it for five, his prediction's come true.

He used his last potion fifteen minutes ago; he's bleeding from a gash on his arm, high up toward the shoulder, and has nothing left to heal it. He doesn't want to give up, but they're going to have to circle back around to those vending machines, if they want to keep going.

Noct digs his nails into the palm of his hand and tries to force back the helpless frustration that wells up inside him.

He just wants Prompto back. He just wants to know he's  _okay_.

Noct glances over to where Gladio and Ignis are, halfway across the chamber, taking on two MTs at a time. They're going to be another minute, so he might as well get one more pod checked before they turn back.

Noct fiddles with the control panel, a series of buttons that are second-nature after opening a few hundred of these things already. Then he steps back, braced for a fight, as the door slides open.

This time, there's not an MT inside.

This time it's Prompto, falling forward, and Noct can barely think fast enough to catch him.

He's dead weight in Noct's arms, and Noct takes a step back, trying to hold on, but he overbalances and goes down. He's still got one arm around Prompto – realizes, with something like horror, how clammy the skin feels beneath his hand.

"Prompto?" he says.

There's no response. For an agonizing second, Noct thinks he's too late.

Then Prompto makes a noise. It's a soft sound, somewhere in the back of his throat, and his eyes flicker open, and Noct just has time to think: oh, thank gods.

Then he really _looks_ at Prompto, and some of that gratitude flickers and fades, because what kind of gods could stand by and let this happen?

The face Noct knows as well as his own – the grinning, freckled face in half the photographs on his apartment walls back in Insomnia – is an absolute wreck. Prompto's eyes are half-lidded, red with crying, dull and unfocused. His face is lined with exhaustion; he's scraped and bruised, and his lip is bleeding like he tried to bite right through it.

His eyes slide over toward Noct – falter, and stare for a beat too long. Then recognition floods in, and Prompto crumples like a castle made of sand.

When the tears come, Prompto bites down on his lip again. He shudders, a whole-body tremor, and he reaches one hand out toward Noct.

And gods –  _gods_. His hands look worse than his face does.

They're mangled; there's no better word for it. They're raw and bleeding, swollen like someone took a hammer to them. All of his fingernails are ragged nubs, except for the ones that are missing altogether.

One of Prompto's hands circles around the back of Noct's neck, trying to pull him closer. It's just blunt pressure, no grip behind the action, but Noct goes anyway – lets himself be drawn down.

He wraps his arms around Prompto, tight as he can, and presses his lips together to keep them from trembling. He can feel Prompto shaking against him – can feel the hitches in his chest when the sobs come wrenching out.

Noct leans in closer still – presses his forehead to Prompto's and just holds him for a minute.

"Hey," he says, and strokes a careful hand through Prompto's hair. "Shh. You're okay. I've got you.

"Noct," says Prompto, voice barely there. It's a breath of air and a rasp of sound, and Noct goes cold and dizzy at the thought that he was screaming long enough to lose it.

"How bout we get out of here?" says Noct.

He knows the instant the words sink in – feels the extra pressure from Prompto's arm, trying to hold him closer. "Please," Prompto rasps. " _Please_."

"Shh," says Noct. "It's okay. We're going." He shifts his arms, carefully – slips one under Prompto's shoulders and the other beneath his knees. Then he stands, lifting the weight with his legs and not his back, the way Gladio taught him.

The new height puts him face to face with the open pod, door still partially ajar. He can see the inside of it now: frantic scratch marks and smears of dried blood. Near the corner, Noct can just make out the imprint of a hand.

He stands there for a second, swaying – so sick and shaken that he's afraid he'll fall right back down to his knees. 

But Prompto needs him to keep it together. Prompto's pressing his face in against the fabric of Noct's shirt, and his chest is heaving harder now, and he needs to be somewhere _safe_.

Noct tightens his grip. He turns away and starts to move.

"Gladio!" he calls. "Ignis! I found him!"

He doesn't wait for them to catch up – just heads for the stairs. Every step he takes puts them farther away, and by the time they reach the bottom, Prompto's hitched breathing has evened out into something a bit less frantic.

"Hang tight," says Noct. "We're back down on the ground level. Not much farther. Okay?"

Prompto nods, the smallest of motions, and doesn't turn his face away from where it's buried against Noct's shirt.

Ignis and Gladio have almost caught up; they're circling around from another set of stairs, at the other side of the chamber.

"How is he?" says Gladio, and then draws up short when he gets a better look, swearing.

"Anyone got a potion left?" says Noct, by way of answer.

"I'm afraid we used the last of our share," says Ignis. "Is he badly injured?"

Noct starts to nod – remembers that Ignis can't see it, anymore. So he says, "His hands are pretty rough. We need to get him the hell out of here."

"Want me to take a turn?" Gladio holds his arms out in offer – and honestly, it makes more sense to have Gladio carry him. It does. He can lift Prompto one-handed like he weighs nothing at all.

But Noct's fingers tighten their hold. He says, "I've got him," and the words come out defensive.

Gladio, thank all the gods, doesn't push. He just says, "Then I'll take point. Where to?"

They're going to need more curatives, but that can wait. More than that, Prompto needs somewhere safe – somewhere he can lie down and rest.

"One of those dorms," says Noct. "Whichever one's closest."

Gladio nods, grim and somber, and starts to move. Noct falls in behind him, Ignis bringing up the rear.

It only takes them ten minutes to reach the dorm, and by the time they do, Prompto's breathing has mostly evened out. The shivery sobs against Noct's chest are finished, and some of the tension in him has started to ebb away.

He goes rigid all over again at _tsshhh_ of the door sliding open – jerks his head toward it, frantic, so see what the cause is.

"It's just the dorm," says Noct. "Okay?"

It takes Prompto a minute to nod, but Noct waits for it – doesn't step inside until he feels the slight motion against his chest. 

He eases Prompto down on the center cot – gives him as much space from the walls as the narrow room allows. Then he sits down on the edge of the mattress and says, "Someone needs to go for potions."

"Yeah," says Gladio. "I got it." He casts around for a second – takes hold of the bunk beds nearest the wall and hauls them around like they're a kid's toy. "Soon as I'm out, you barricade this door, you hear me?"

At least two smart-ass comments try to slip out of Noct's mouth in reply, but he forces them both down. He thinks about Ardyn's mind games, and what his Shield might be walking into out there on his own, and he says, "I don't think we ought to split up."

It's Ignis that answers, thoughtful and measured. He makes his way toward the door where Gladio still stands. "I'll provide what backup I'm able."

Noct nods, a bit tightly. "Thanks, guys. Hurry back, okay?"

"We're already on our way," says Gladio, and steps out the door.

 

* * *

 

The feel of Noct's hand stroking through his hair may not be the best thing Prompto's ever felt, but it's pretty firmly up there in the top five.

It's warm, and the fingers are gentle, and the touch is a constant reminder that he's not shut up in a tiny metal coffin.

Prompto wants to stay awake and enjoy it. He does. But his eyelids are too heavy to keep open, and they slip closed somehow when he's not paying attention, and then he just kind of drifts for a while.

When he wakes the first time, there's an arm under his back, trying to lever him up. "Last thing," Noct's saying. "I swear. Then you can sleep."

Sleep sounds kind of amazing right now. Even being able to lie down feels like the Astrals descended from the heavens and blessed him, personally. His legs and spine still ache from standing up for so long with nothing else to take the weight. 

He's still not sure how long he was in there. His mind shies away like a spooked chocobo every time he starts to consider it.

"Okay?" Noct's saying.

Has Noct been talking this whole time? Prompto blinks at him, blearily.

"Huh?" he manages. The word's barely audible, and no great shock there; his throat feels like the gravel roads outside of Longwythe, rough and ragged.

"Water," says Noct. "You think you can drink something?"

The word "water" is like a light coming on in a darkened room. Suddenly, Prompto's hyper aware that his throat is painfully dry. He licks at his lips – nods a bit too quickly, cringing at his own eagerness.

Noct reaches over the edge of the cot for something – comes up with a water bottle. 

Without thinking, Prompto stretches out a hand to take it.

He gets as far as trying to curl his fingers before the pain screaming through his hands flares up, white-hot and unbearable. He jerks back like he's been burned – grits his teeth, hard, and takes a long couple of seconds to ride it out.

"Hey," says Noct, voice tight with alarm. "Just stay still, okay? The swelling's pretty bad. I think you broke some bones."

This time, Noct doesn't offer the bottle. He just presses it straight to Prompto's lips.

It should be embarrassing. He should be mortified, needing help like some kid too young to even hold a cup. But maybe he's just too tired, because all he feels is a weary surge of gratitude.

The water goes down sweet and easy; he starts out slow, but by the end he's gulping it.

"Better?" says Noct, when he's finished the whole bottle.

Prompto nods. Better's kind of an understatement. He's almost dizzy with relief.

"We've got more," says Noct, "if you need it."

But Prompto's eyelids are getting heavy again. He wants to stay up – could probably do with some more water, honestly. But he lets his eyes drift closed, instead, and sleep rises up to swallow him whole.

When he wakes the second time, Prompto discovers that nothing hurts anymore.

Noct's in a chair beside his cot, and Ignis is seated in the corner, and Gladio is standing guard by the barricaded door, still and stern as a statue of marble. 

It takes him a minute, to realize that Noct's fingers are threaded through his. It takes him a minute after that to realize it's not causing him pain.

When he wakes the third time, Prompto comes to screaming, trying to claw his way out of a metal enclosure that's pressing in on every side. In the dream, he's been there his whole life, because that's what he's made for.

In the dream, no one ever comes to get him.

But as soon as his eyes are open, Noct's there at his side. Noct's arm slips behind his back; Noct's hand rubs soothing circles. 

Prompto sobs until he retches, and when he finally calms down, Ignis insists he drink another bottle of water and eat some vending machine snack bars.

Granola's never tasted so good.

When he wakes the fourth time, Noct says, "You ready to get out of here?"

And Prompto – Prompto goes still against him.

He hasn't forgotten where they are, or what Noct needs to do here. 

He's just _tired_ still, and shaken. He thinks he might not do so hot, if they run into Ardyn along the way.

But he makes himself smile, and he says, "Time to go get us a Crystal, huh?"

He can't quite read the look Noct fixes on him. It's weirdly flat; he can't parse it, and he feels like he should be able to. He's spent five years learning the little tells of Noct's face, after all. He knows the blank give-nothing-away mask his best friend saves for reporters, and the one he uses for their old classmates, and the one he wears around diplomats. 

More than the masks, though, Prompto knows how to read what's underneath. He's _good_ at it.

But he doesn't know this look, and for a minute he flounders, not sure what he said wrong.

"We're not getting the Crystal," says Noct.

Prompto blinks up at him. "But that's why we're here."

Noct presses his lips together, so hard they make a thin, white line. At last he says, "We're here for you, you idiot."

Prompto doesn't say anything. He's pretty sure he's staring.

"I'm done playing his games," says Noct. "We're getting the hell out of here."

"But it's the _Crystal_ ," says Prompto, and maybe some of his bewilderment creeps through, because Iggy's speaking up, calm and reasonable, like a professor teaching a class.

"Personal considerations aside," says Ignis, "it seems likely that we're being corralled into a trap. Strategically, our best option is to retreat and engineer a situation more to our advantage." He pauses a moment, tipping his head in Prompto's direction. "Although I daresay the personal consideration alone would have been plenty."

Gladio's standing near the door to the dorm again – or maybe still. Maybe he hasn't moved. Maybe he's been standing watch this whole time, and even the thought of it makes Prompto want to cry, he's so grateful. Gladio says, "So are you ready, or what? I'm sick of staring at these beds."

Prompto's not sick of staring at the beds, but by the gods is he tired of metal walls. He bites down on his lower lip, hard, to keep it from trembling – nods his head twice. When he thinks he can talk without his voice wavering, he says, "Yeah. Sure. Let's go."

It's not a perfect fairy tale rescue. He still aches, deep down, the muscles sore from days of abuse. And he hasn't told them yet – hasn't told them anything. They took an MT like all the others out of that pod, and they're going to walk right out the door with him. 

But they're _going_ , and for right now, that's going to have to be enough.

All the rest can wait till later.


End file.
